


Force + Violence

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Jack Dalton (MacGyver 2016), Whipping, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-31 19:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: On their way to ex-fil Mac and Jack are arrested and sent to a brutal prison camp.
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 172





	Force + Violence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JustAnotherWriter (N1ghtshade)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/N1ghtshade/gifts).

> For Thistle,  
we've talked a few times about whipping Mac over the last year. Hope this meets your expectations.
> 
> Warning: I feel like the major whump scene is a little more brutal than what I normally write (I mean, I cried, but lets be real, when don't I cry?)  
Shameless pilfering of my favorite big valley episode

“How’s the leg?” Jack asks looking over at his pale partner in the front seat next to him. He feels his concern spike again, Mac’s lips are pressed into a firm line over clenched teeth. His jaw working as he swallows against pain.  
  
Mac lifts an eyelid, glancing at Jack, before attempting a reassuring smile that halfway through cracks into a grimace.  
  
“It can wait until ex-fil,” Mac insists.  
  
“I would like to put a few miles between us and that town,” Jack explains, looking down at the singed material of Mac’s cargo pants, and pink blistered skin that peeks through on his calf and up over his knee. “But it’s about a two hour drive until we reach the airfield and I don’t want you waiting that long.”  
  
“Yeah, but I’m hoping the first aid kit on the plane will have some good drugs,” Mac rests his head back against the seat, breathing deeply. Blonde hair falling across his forehead.  
  
Jack frowns at Mac’s easy admittance that the pain is bothering him enough that he won't put up an exasperating argument over accepting medication.  
  
As if reading Jack’s mind, and after this many years together, it’s a distinct possibility, Mac continues. “My pants are fused into the burns, and I just really don’t want to feel it when you start cutting them out.”  
  
Jack leans forward, pulling open the glovebox and rummaging through it.  
  
“I already checked,” Mac says, not moving from his spot. “Miguel might be a reliable contact and a great mechanic, but his first aid kit is nonexistent.”  
  
“I’m gonna start carrying two kits on me at all times. When one gets lost or your cannibalize it for parts I’ve got a spare to patch you up with,” Jack grumbles, taking his eyes off the road long enough to look Mac up and down. “Is that the only place you’re hurting?”  
  
Mac nods. “Maybe some bruises.”  
  
Jack presses his foot harder against the gas pedal. The car responds, bumping over potholes, the shocks, and suspension showing their age. Jack feels like his teeth are rattling.  
  
He takes a curve fast, cursing as they come around the bend, he leans forward, squinting out the front window.  
  
A manned barricade blocks the road ahead.  
  
“Son of a--” Jack growls as he slows the car, still a few hundred yards away.  
  
Mac opens his eyes at Jack’s exclamation. “A checkpoint?”  
  
“We couldn’t have attracted that much attention that fast,” Jack says. There’s no room to turn around on the narrow road, and Jack doesn’t like the idea of attracting that much attention. He pulls his phone from his pocket to give Matty a sitrep.  
  
“It might not be for us,” Mac offers weakly.  
  
The words are still hanging in the air when behind them a siren whirls. A squad car pulling from its blindspot on an access road, effectively trapping them between two sets of armed police.  
  
Jack pulls the car onto the shoulder. He hears Matty’s voice, scolding him through the phone’s tinny speakers.  
  
“Step out of the car with your hands raised,” a voice distorted by the squad car’s PA system booms.  
  
“You were saying,” Jack grumbles, he sets the phone on the dash, keeping the call active. “Matty we got trouble. Not sure what’s up, but I think we’re getting arrested and Mac’s hurt.” He hopes his voice carries. That Matty acts on his words and Riley begins tracing the call. He rolls down the window of the car, sticking both hands through and reaching for the car door’s handle.  
  
"They mobilized awfully fast," Mac says, as he copies Jack’s actions, easing the door opened and struggling to move his burned leg off the floorboards and to the ground, wincing when he puts his weight on it. He has to use the door for leverage. His feet barely under him when uniformed officers grab him, spinning him around.  
  
“Hey! Hey! We’re not resisting,” Jack states as he’s slammed against the hood of the car. He could put up a hell of a fight, probably take half of the officers out before they knew what hit them, and take off into the brush on either side of the road, but Mac is in no condition to do the same. They’d be quickly overtaken with Mac’s bum leg. So he resists the urge to fight back, until Mac yelps when he’s slammed down next to Jack.  
  
“Hey, easy!” Jack yells, pushing back against the hands holding him down. Another hand grabs the back of his neck, smashing his face against the hood of the car. Ignoring the indignation that bubbles with the feeling of a stranger’s hands frisking him, securing his gun, his backup piece, and his knife. Another too familiar pass of hands and his backup backup is taken.  
  
Mac hisses when hands scuttle against the burns on his leg. His army knife and supply of paperclips tossed between two officers with a crude joke.  
  
Cold metal snaps around Jack’s wrists and he’s pulled up and spun to lean against the car, facing the officers.  
  
“I think there’s been some sort of mistake here, muchacho. I can’t blame you for getting a little overzealous, but we’re not the men you’re looking for,” Jack addresses the officer in charge, the one with the most hardware on his uniform.  
  
“I think you’re exactly who we’re looking for. Two American tourists who came into town to let off steam, looking for trouble. Thinking because you were American we would not pursue you for your crimes. And perhaps we would have overlooked the bar fight and the explosion. Maybe even that you brought firearms with you, and stole a car.”  
  
Mac looks at Jack sharply, brow furrowing in confusion at the accusations.  
  
“No, we paid for that car,” Jack argues, affronted, wondering what kind of game the officer is playing with them.  
  
“Then you have a receipt for the transaction?” The officer asks.  
  
“No,” Mac admits. “We paid him in cash, but we shook hands on the deal.”  
  
“Do you think you are a cowboy and this is the American wild west where business is done on a handshake?” The officer taunts. “His name scrawled on a napkin would be enough.”  
  
“Well, why don’t we go back there and ask him. I’m sure this is a big misunderstanding and maybe seeing us will jog his memory. He’s gettin’ up there, maybe his mind isn’t what it used to be. Forgot he sold us the car.”  
  
The officer sneers. “Go back to the garage and ask Miguel? Will you be bringing a psychic with you?”  
  
Jack frowns, looking over at Mac.  
  
“Maybe your years are also getting up there?" The officer sneers. "Going back will jog your memory that Miguel is dead.”  
  
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! He was alive when we left him,” distress at the news causes Jack to snarl in reply. “What did you do to him?”  
  
“There has to be some mistake,” Mac says, taking a limping step forward attempting to deescalate the situation before Jack's acerbic tongue abrades things further. The officer standing next to him reacts before he can get his feet underneath him, jerking him back into place, knocking him against the metal car. Mac bites off a cry of pain the sudden motion brings.  
  
“Hey!” Jack yells as Mac stumbles. A clattering of metal, service weapons turned, aimed at Jack, reminding him of his place in this.  
  
“I’m good,” Mac murmurs, breathing through pursed lips, keeping his voice low, to defuse the tensions running hot. “Will you allow us to contact our embassy?”  
  
“You Americans always think you can come here to cause trouble and then your government will fix things for you.”  
  
“It’s our right to let someone know where we are,” Mac argues. "It would be worse if we just disappeared."  
  
“They will be informed. Perhaps they already know. Miguel was known to be in collusion with your government.”  
  
Jack’s heart sinks. There’s no way this plays out in their favor, either murderers or spies, but he continues feigning ignorance anyway. “I don’t know what the hell you're talking about there, but all we did was buy a car and try to head home.”  
  
“I don’t think you’ll be seeing home for a long time. Book them.”  
  
“He’s injured,” Jack argues, shrugging his shoulders in Mac’s direction. “He needs a doctor.”  
  
“It doesn’t seem like you were in much of a hurry to get him to medical care. There were several competent physicians in the town you just left.”  
  
“I wanted to get him home, to his own physician who is familiar with him.”  
  
“Don’t worry, there will be a doctor at the prison.”  
  
“Prison? What about a trial,” Jack shouts over his shoulder as he hustled to the squad car. At least in a local jail, there might be a chance for escape. A chance to contact the Phoenix. Sent off to an undisclosed prison, it’ll be like they just disappeared without a trace.  
  
“You are demanding. Of course, you will have your chance for a trial eventually. Where you will be found guilty and sent to the prison to serve out your sentence.”  
  
Jack tries to look through the windshield of their car, head swiveling as the guard pushes him ahead, to see if the call is still active, hoping that Riley can trace their location. At least it’s a starting point.  
  
Mac stumbles as the guard shoves him into the back of the squad car, trying to keep pressure off his bad leg. Without the use of his hands, he falls hard against the seat. His arms viciously twisted in disgust, pulling him upright again, his leg scraps against the car. He swallows a cry of pain as he folds himself into the seat.  
  
"Settle back, get some rest," Jack murmurs.  
  
Mac shakes his head. The dull pain his leg erupted into a fiery throb, and he's too wired to find any rest. Better to keep watch with Jack, two sets of eyes keeping track of their journey.  
  
Jack’s kernel of hope that the Phoenix will easily track them, turns to despair as they drive for hours, miles and miles. Through one small dilapidated town and then another, and then through the desert. No sign of life or civilization. Just lizards and vultures picking the bones of whatever creature was desperate enough to risk the sun and the heat.  
  
The sun is low on the horizon when they reach the prison. Jack makes a show of moaning and stretching, stumbling against the officers to distract them from Mac’s stiff, pain-filled gait as he topples out of the car and limps through the gate.  
  
Mac’s eyes are hazy with pain, but despite that, Jack can see the way he takes in the small prison camp. Roughshod buildings that look like a stiff breeze would knock them down, stand in a row, at attention, as if waiting for inspection. Rusty barbed wire strung along the top of a chain-link fence. A kennel of dogs, kept hungry and mean, snarl as they’re marched past.  
  
Inside the building, their hands are released as they’re processed, fingerprinted and photographed but Jack knows it’s a sham, for show in case someone questions the local government about prison conditions, and who is incarcerated there.  
  
Stripped of their clothes and searched. Pulling Mac’s trousers loose from his leg pops a blister and serous fluid runs down his calf.  
  
“Easy with the hands there,” Jack balks, apparently at the invasion of his personal space and earning a blow to his kidneys when he tries to shy away. Mac’s guard loosens his grip, ready to step in and assist his coworkers should Jack become too unruly, allowing Mac a second to catch his breath.  
  
They’re prodded into a slimy, tiled room and sprayed down with a hose. Jack keeps Mac tucked behind him, a tight grip on his arm to help keep him upright under the bruising force of the spray. Then manhandled into jumpsuits with questionable stains.  
  
Jack resists just enough to keep the attention firmly on him, making the guard push him through doorways and stand at attention in the middle of an office. A man around Jack’s age rises from behind the desk, stopping in front of them.  
  
“You may address me as Warden or Sir," he begins his pitch about his authority and the prison, and Jack rolls his eyes.  
  
“Someone’s on a power trip,” Jack mutters, watching the man defiantly. He wants to see how far he can push, figure out who and what they’re dealing with.  
  
The warden steps into Jack’s personal space, standing nose to nose. Jack’s lips curl into a smile when he sees a flash on uncertainty in the other man’s eyes. Used to having his authority questioned, no doubt, but not used to a prisoner not backing down when he is challenged.  
  
“We take discipline very seriously here. Your insubordination is not appreciated. Nor will it be tolerated. Any additional attempts to undermine my authority will be dealt with swiftly and without mercy. Do you understand?”  
  
"Do all corrupt prison wardens attend the same lecture? Get a script to practice this speech? Cause I've heard this one, gotta tell ya, it's kind of bland, a little hokey. That guy in Serbia, you remember him, Mac? Now his delivery was good."  
  
The man's eye twitches. "I asked if you understood."  
  
“Yes. Sir.” Jack says in that special way of his that sounds less like obedience more like a suggestion that the man go sit on a cactus. 

The warden ignores the challenge in Jack's words, continues explaining the expectations of the prisoners. “You’ll be provided with three meals a day and sufficient water to survive the desert conditions so long as you obey orders and complete your work, pull your weight.”  
  
Jack scowls. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“Address me properly.”  
  
“What are you talking about… sir?” Jack forces between clenched teeth.  
  
“Your communication leaves much to be desired.”  
  
Mac’s hand brushes against Jack’s forearm to quiet him. Recognizing the need to keep their heads down and out of trouble. “When you say work, Warden, what does that entail?”  
  
“This is a labor camp. Most of your duties will include clearing and hauling rock for local ranches.”  
  
“But we haven’t been convicted, sir. Hard labor--”  
  
“Labor gives prisoners a purpose,” the warden interrupts Mac’s protests. “It keeps idle hands out of trouble and too tired to plot against the authorities.” His lips curl up in a sneering smile. “I’m sure you noticed on your way in, that we’re kilometers away from the nearest town. We’ve never had a successful escape,” the warden boasts. “Take them to their barracks.”  
  
“Wait, sir,” Jack speaks up, shrugging off the guard's hand. “My friend, he was injured. We were told there would be a doctor here.”  
  
The warden looks at his watch. “I’m sorry. He’s already left for the day. You’ll have to wait.”  
  
“What do you mean left for the day?” Jack sputters, taking a step forward “What would you do if there was an emergency?”  
  
“Jack,” Mac grabs his shoulder, noticing the way the guard tightens his grip on his gun and the warden’s eyes gleamed with delight at Jack’s threatening posture. “It’s fine. I can wait.”  
  
Breathing heavily, Jack looks at Mac, noting the concern pinching his features and then reading the feel of the room.

He steps back, canting his head in a submissive pose that Mac knows has to be killing him. He resists the urge to shrug off the guards’ hands again. They're dismissed from the warden’s presence. They stop at a supply closet and are each given a small basin, a bar of soap and a hand towel before they're marched across the yard to the barracks.  
  
The sun set while they were processed, the sky a deep burgundy, fading quickly into night, taking with it the heat of the day. Searchlights sweep the yard at intervals.  
  
A lone bare bulb illuminates the interior of the wooden structure. The other prisoners eye them warily as the guard assigns them their bunks, Jack on a bottom and Mac across the aisle on top. A quick shake of his head keeps Jack from protesting the assignment, offering to switch with Mac. And Mac ignores the pain in his leg as he scrambles up the shaky ladder into his bed.  
  
“You sure you’re okay up there, hoss?” Jack asks, standing next to Mac as he stretches out on the bunk.  
  
“It’s not that high,” Mac shrugs.  
  
“I meant scrambling up there on your bad leg, not your dislike of…” Jack’s voice trails off with a smile when he spots the teasing smirk on Mac’s face. “Alright, well, if you’re sure.”  
  
"Goodnight, Jack," Mac says, turning over.  
  
Jack sits on his bunk, leaning against the rungs of the ladder. His gaze flits between Mac, shifting restlessly, knowing that it's pain keeping his partner from achieving sleep, and the other prisoners engrossed in a card game at the other end of the room. He knows he's surreptitiously being watched.  
  
Despite his attempts and the lights out order that comes thirty minutes later, Jack doesn't sleep that night.  
  
Morning comes too quickly. The sun barely cresting the horizon and the guards throw the door open with a bang that shakes the walls and the bunks.  
  
Mac scrambles out of his bunk, landing heavily on the rough floor, catching himself on Jack’s shoulder. He always manages to be right there when Mac needs him. He subtly supports Mac as make their way to mess for disappointingly thin oatmeal. It's not nearly enough after over twenty hours since their last meal.  
  
"Take some of mine," Jack insists. "You need to keep up your strength."  
  
Mac holds up his hand to keep Jack from pushing his bowl over to him.  
  
"Purely selfish on my end, hoss. I need your brain well fed so it can get us out of here," Jack coerces but Mac remains stubborn.  
  
They fall out for inspection. The heat already blazing as they stand at attention. It’s worse than being at boot camp as they wait for the warden to deign to make an appearance.  
  
The inspection is a joke. The warden makes a quick speech about discipline that barely lasts twenty seconds by Jack's count, after making them wait nearly twenty minutes, Mac standing on his bad leg all the while, before he dismisses them for their work detail. It pisses Jack off.  
  
“Warden!” Jack calls.  
  
The man’s back stiffens and he turns back to face them  
  
“We were told we could see a doctor today, sir,” Jack asks, swallowing his pride and addressing the man with respect, for Mac’s sake.  
  
“Your work detail is leaving.”  
  
“But his leg…”  
  
“Prisoners are not permitted in the camp during the day. He’ll have to wait.”  
  
Anger seethes in Jack and he lunges forward to be caught by Mac as the guards point their weapons toward Jack.  
  
Mac tugs his arm. “C’mon. It’ll be okay. I can wait a little longer.”  
  
Jack holds his ground, continuing to glare at the warden.  
  
“Jack!” Mac says sharply, commanding his partner’s attention.  
  
Jack spins on his heel and walks with Mac, supporting him as they head for the idling truck. The diesel engine coughing and sputtering. Jack clambers into the back first, then pulls Mac up behind him. The other prisoners already settled onto the wooden benches in the back, leaving two spots near the tailgate.  
  
“You can’t wait too much longer,” Jack mutters, sitting down next to Mac. “Your eyes have that look they get right before you spike a fever.”  
  
“What are you talking about? I don’t get a look.”  
  
“Yeah, you do,” Jack says, reaching over and pushing Mac’s hair off his forehead. “You’re already feelin’ warm.”  
  
“Because it’s ninety degrees in the shade,” Mac closes his eyes, leaning against the wooden seat-back.  
  
“I don’t care what he says, you’re getting medical attention tonight.”  
  
Jack watches, counting guards and paying attention to the route they take from the prison. At this point, any information they glean could be useful in aiding their escape. He's already plotting. If he can get Mac medical care tonight, and then a few days to rest up, they could make their jailbreak by the end of the week. He’s already working on a plan to squirrel away water and food over the next few days, saving parts of his meals, and his alone, Mac needs to keep up his strength, to sustain them on their desert trek.  
  
The work is back-breaking. Monotonous, mindless, moving rocks to a pile and then loading them into a truck. His fingers lock into claws from the strain of toting, his back hunched from lifting.  
  
Jack pulls up his shirttails to wipe the sweat from his face before it can run into his eyes.  
  
Mac's cheeks are flushed pink. Jack hopes it's just the heat and the exertion of hauling rocks, but the dread coiling in his belly tells him that hope is misplaced.  
  
The air is still. Not even a puff of a breeze to ghost across sweaty skin and offer some relief from the beating rays.  
  
The guards stand in the shade of the truck, and a small tent, sipping on canteens full of water, mostly ignoring the prisoners, except to yell when the work slows.  
  
When the sun reaches it's zenith and Jack thinks he might just drop from exhaustion, he has no idea how Mac has found the reserved strength to keep going, they break for lunch.  
  
Mac sags against him. Jack pulls him to a small, shadowed patch of earth, helping to lower him to the ground as Mac kicks out his bad leg. Like breakfast, lunch leaves a lot to be desired. The water in their canteens is tepid. Still wet, and washes away the layer of sand coating his tongue, but provides little relief.  
  
Jack tears his bread in half, glancing towards the guards to make sure they're occupied. With the absence of pockets in the jumpsuit, Jack unbuttons and slides the chunk of bread into his underwear, still watching the guards as he buttons up, when he catches Mac's horrified look.  
  
"No pockets," he shrugs as he bites into the other half of the dense, dry bread. "Gotta start stockpiling so we're ready when the opportunity presents itself." The look on Mac's face doesn't change. "You obviously haven't been starving as you're trying to escape from a prison camp before. This bread is so dry a little moist, salty heat might make it palatable."  
  
Mac grumbles and starts to tear his bread in half.  
  
"No, you eat that," Jack says.  
  
"You're not planning to take me with you on your escape?" Mac asks.  
  
"The heat frying your brain like an egg already? Of course, you're coming with."  
  
"Then I'd really prefer to have my own groin bread."  
  
Jack catches his hand. "Then we'll figure out a way to make a pocket or something, if you're gonna be all squeamish about this. They're already giving us starvation rations. You need to eat." He watches as Mac chokes down the rest of the bread, and tilts Mac head back to run a little water from his canteen over Mac's flushed face.  
  
The afternoon is worse. The sun that he thought unrelenting this morning is unbearable now. The guards even stop yelling at them to keep going. Their humanity buried somewhere deep down. Recognizing that even their prisoners deserve some compassion, or maybe they don't want to explain why one of their charges dropped from heatstroke.  
  
From the sun's position on the horizon, Jack estimates that it's just after three when they're loaded back into the truck. The drive back to the prison takes well over an hour. The unpaved roads jarring already aching muscles.  
  
The warden watches with disdain as the prisoners ease themselves from the truck.  
  
"Warden!" Jack calls over his shoulder as he helps Mac off the truck. "Warden!" He yells again when the man ignores him and moves to head back inside his office. Once Mac is standing on his own feet, Jack turns, running after the man. He's half worried he'll be deemed a threat and shot, the guards justifying it that he was trying to attack the warden, or that he'll be subjected to the swift and merciless punishment that warden has managed to mention twice in the less than twenty-four hours they've been in the camp.  
  
"Sir, the doctor, for my friend," Jack says slowly, stopping a few feet away, holding up his hands to show he's unarmed.  
  
“You should have said something sooner," the warden replies, his tone bored.  
  
“I did,” Jack forces his voice to remain steady. “No one listened to me.  
  
“I’m sorry, but the doctor is only at the prison on Tuesdays.”  
  
“Why didn't you say that before? We've waited long enough. We've played your game. He needs help now.” Jack's illusion of control over his emotions breaks. Fire burns in his eyes. The warden takes a step backward, startled at the ferocity.  
  
“I suppose, he’ll be no good to us if he dies,” the warden says. Sighs as though he’s about to make a great personal sacrifice then gestures to a guard. “Take the prisoner to the infirmary.”  
  
“I’m going with,” Jack states, his tone brooks no arguments. “I’m trained and if there's no doctor, he’s going to need help to take care of those burns.”  
  
The warden glares at Jack. “Watch them like a hawk,” he orders the guard as he consents to Jack’s terms.  
  
The guard lets them into the infirmary. A musty smell permeated the room that's shut up tightly most days. Jack snaps on the overhead exam light, despite claims that the physician had been here the day before the room is dusty and disorganized.  
  
Mac slips from Jack's hold and hobbles across the room stopping in front of the glass cabinets, eyes scanning the contents. Next to him, Jack gathers gauze, tape an antiseptic and a basin.  
  
"Finding what we need?" Jack asks.  
  
Mac shrugs. "Supplies are slim," he says with a sigh, not sure what he was expecting but still feeling disappointed. He pulls open the doors and snatches a few bottles he recognizes, ointments that he's become all too familiar with.  
  
"Pain meds?" Jack asks hopefully when Mac shakes a pill into his hand and dry swallows.  
  
"Antibiotic. Doesn't look like there are any narcotics. "  
  
Jack turns to face the guard. "Where's the doc keep the good stuff?"  
  
The man shrugs. "Can't trust the prisoners not to steal it."  
  
"Or the warden," Jack mutters darkly.  
  
"There's some acetaminophen," Mac says, palming the bottle and grimacing around another dry swallow that leaves his throat feeling raw.  
  
"That's gonna be like pissin' on a fire once we start cleaning up your leg," Jack walks over to the doctor's desk in the corner of the room. He rummages through the drawers, the bottom one locked. He grabs a ballpoint pen, stripping it down like he would a rifle. He shoves the inkwell in the lock, slamming the stapler against it to make a quick and very dirty, the ink explodes over the lock, onto the desk and Jack's hands, bump key.  
  
Mac frowns at him.  
  
"What you think you're the only one who can improvise?" Jack teases. "Here we go, that's what I was lookin' for, a little cowboy medicine." He holds up a bottle of whiskey.  
  
The guard steps forward, protesting Jack's light B&E and theft.  
  
"You really want to try it?" Jack's voice low and dangerous, still holding the stapler in one hand and standing up straight. The guard deflates. "That's what I thought. Here," he hands Mac the bottle.  
  
"I don't think this is going to do much," Mac says dubiously reading the label of the cheap alcohol.  
  
"Well, I'll feel a hell of a lot better if you take a couple swigs of that before I go to cutting on your leg."  
  
Mac's nose wrinkles against the fumes as he brings the bottle to his lips.   
  
"Oh that's bad!" he sputters. "I think this is what I made to take paint off one of Bozer's masks."  
  
"Take a little more," Jack encourages. "Then we'll let our friend Jorge finish it up if he wants."  
  
Mac manages to choke down two more gulps, coughing as it burns his throat, before he passes the bottle to the guard who's eyes light up.  
  
Jack fills the basin with warm soapy water then helps Mac up onto the padded exam table in the opposite corner. He slices up the seam on the leg of the jumpsuit, just enough to roll it out of the way without putting pressure on the burns, and sliding a towel under Mac's leg then begins washing the injured limb carefully, cleaning the burns thoroughly but trying to keep the rest of the blisters intact.  
  
He wraps Mac's leg in a warm towel to loosen bits of his cargo pants that melted into his skin.  
  
The guard happily chugs from the bottle, content to sit in the office chair and ignore the two prisoners. While he's distracted Mac palms a scalpel and tweezers. Jack grins at him proudly. He's planning on snagging a few needles and syringes and some potassium tablets before they leave too. He doesn't have the details of a plan hammered out quite yet, but this might be his only chance to grab some supplies.  
  
Once his skin softens, Jack works the threads from Mac's legs, hardening his heart and ignoring the sharp gasps of pain that escape Mac's lips when the edges of the string are buried beneath the surface. It's slow going to remove each bit of foreign material. Mac lays back, his arm covering his eyes, hoping to keep Jack from seeing the tears that burn when a particularly deep thread is pulled loose. His fingers clutch the edge of the table, forcing himself to breathe deeply through the pain.  
  
"You're doing great, hoss," Jack encourages. "Almost done here."  
  
Mac nods, not trusting his voice.  
  
The tweezers clatter on the tray when Jack pulls the last of the threads from his skin. He washes Mac's leg again before slathering it in ointment. Then supporting Mac's ankle as he raises the leg off the bed, Jack carefully wraps the limb in tightly woven gauze.  
  
"Done," Jack announces, patting Mac's foot.  
  
Mac nods, running a shaky hand through his hair, then accepts Jack's help to sit up.  
  
"Probably time to head for the mess hall. Dr. Jack won't even make you stick to clears after this procedure," Jack teases lightly, knowing that nothing robs Mac of his appetite faster than pain or medical treatment.  
  
Predictably, Mac protests that he's not feeling hungry.  
  
"It can't be that bad. It's gotta be better than those cowboy beans you scorched a couple of nights ago," Jack says, as they follow the guard out of the infirmary. "I thought it was the kitchen that gave you troubles, that maybe cooking over an open flame mid-mission would go better, fix whatever disconnected wires in your brain keeping you from being able to make something edible, but kid, those were awful."  
  


* * *

Despite Jack's claims, the prison dinner was at least as bad, if not worse than Mac's last attempt at cooking. Another hunk of bread disappeared into Jack's briefs.

"Good thing I didn't go boxers, or commando."

"Your jeans were too tight for either of those options."

"Yep, learned that one the hard way," Jack flinches and pales at the memory.

The stolen acetaminophen took the edge off of Mac's discomfort, and despite the lumpy mattress and thin blanket, he managed to sleep.

Their second day of hard labor passed like the first. Long and oppressively hot. Mac's head pounded with dehydration by mid-morning and his eyes squinting against the glaring sun. No clouds to break up the intensity, the sand reflecting the light with a shimmer.

Small talk between them ceases. Dry throats and tired muscles.

It's a relief to be herded back into the truck and driven back to camp. Mac's head slips down to rest against Jack's shoulder, bouncing and lolling with the sway of the truck. It speaks of Mac's exhaustion that he would let down his guard enough to fall asleep, but Jack is thankful. The kid needs all the rest he can get. 

When they arrive back at the prison, Mac is ordered to report to the warden. Jack immediately falls into step, but is ordered to return to the barracks, the guards blocking his path.

"Maybe he just wants to make sure my leg is alright," Mac suggests.

"Yeah? And maybe he also wants to take you on an all expense paid trip to the Bahamas?"

"It'll be fine," Mac says, watching as Jack is escorted back to the barracks.

The door opens to the office and a breath of cool air rushes across feverish skin. He almost slumps in relief. He knows it will make the heat that much more suffocating when he leaves, but the short reprieve feels so good that he can't even worry about why he was summoned.

Until he reaches the warden's office.

The relief he’d felt at the cool air replaced by a shiver of dread. 

Mac’s heart stutters when he looks down at the warden’s desk. The bandage scissors, syringes and potassium tablets he’d palmed from the infirmary lay in a neat line across the top. 

The warden looks up expectantly. 

"I see you recognize these," he runs his hand over the tools. 

"No, never seen those before," Mac shakes his head, maintaining eye contact. Taking a page from Jack's playbook.

"Don't lie to me. I took pity on you. I allowed you access to the infirmary to treat your wound. And this is how you repay my kindness.” 

"This must be another misunderstanding, sir," Mac protests. "Like the one that has us locked in here. We're innocent."

"It does seem more like it would be your friend who is the thief and murderer. Perhaps I should question him. We take discipline very seriously here.”  
  
There's a look in the man's eye, one that Mac saw when he thought Jack wasn't going to back down yesterday. Mac knows that Jack will admit to the theft, in an effort to protect Mac. He'll lie, saying that he acted alone and that Mac is innocent. And watching the calculating way the warden smiles, Mac can't let Jack have the chance to take the blame.

"No, wait. You were right. It was me. Jack didn't have anything to do with it."

"He was with you in the infirmary and he didn't notice?"

"He can get tunnel-vision when he's worried. Can't see the forest for the trees," Mac lies, praying that the man believes him.

The warden picks up one of the syringes, rolling it between his fingers, contemplating. "Fine, you say you acted alone, you'll take the punishment, alone." He looks up at the guards waiting just inside the doorway. "Take care of it."

The burly men step forward, one on each arm, marching him from the cool interior out into the sweltering sun. The heat hits him like a blast in the face, and he squints into the bright sunlight. He stumbles on the porch stairs, feet kicking up sand as they tramp through the yard.   


In the window of their barracks, he can see Jack's face. His shock for just a second before he disappears from the window. The door flings open wide, and he hears Jack yelling as a guard blocks his exit from the building.

Their destination, two parallel poles, three feet apart in the middle of the yard. His heart thumps loudly in his chest, muting the sounds of the rest of the world, the scritch of footsteps on the sand, muffled voices, even Jack's yells as he realizes what's to come. 

A cruel hand on his wrist in a bruising force twists his arm, raising it above his head and securing it to the first pole. The action repeated with his left arm. He looks up, strung between the two poles, arms spread overhead and ropes biting into his wrists. He pulls against them, testing, knowing its a futile action, but he can't stop the impulsive instinct to test his bonds. 

In the shadow of the doorway, Jack takes a solid hit, nearly doubling him over as he fights to reach Mac.

Mac wants to yell for him to stop struggling. That he'll only make it worse. Even if he made it past the guards there's no way he could reach and release Mac. Nowhere for them to go even if they managed to breach the gate, nothing but desert for miles outside the fences. Save his strength. He'll need it later. Mac will need it later. 

Watching Jack's desperate struggle momentarily distracts him, gives him something to focus on other than the cruel punishment he knows is coming.

He hears shuffling behind him, feels his heart stutter. Tries to resist glancing over his shoulder at the guard getting into position behind him. He bites his lip, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them again Jack is staring at him. His eyes never wavering and Mac locks onto them. 

There's a whistle. And a hiss.

Mac lurches forward with the force of the blow. A biting pain snaps across his back a second before his ears register the crack. Unbidden tears fill his eyes.  


A beat. 

Then the second lash follows a moment later. This time it steals his breath in a rushed gasp. 

He doesn’t have time to prepare for the third. It wouldn’t have mattered. When he feels his skin split he can’t hold back a cry of pain.  


A fourth, then a fifth, and the tears spill down his cheeks, wet and hot. A dual sensation mimicking the blood that runs down his back. 

The seventh one lands particularly viciously, wrapping around and catching his ribs and the soft flesh of his belly. He screams. 

He loses count after that, the lashes keep falling. His head drops, too heavy to hold. 

He faintly hears Jack yelling again. He raises his head to meet Jack's gaze through blurry tears, and let Jack's strength wrap around him.  


_I got you, hoss_, he hears Jack's voice as if the man is whispering in his ear. _Eyes on me. You can do this._

Except he can't. His head drops again. Tears drip into the sand. His legs shake from exertion, barely holding him upright. His shoulders aching from the strain of his weight pulling him down. 

And everything burns. 

The punch of the blow leaves him scrambling to get his legs under him again. The swinging motion against his arms tear the wounds on his back.  


The pain so great he doesn’t realize the whip has stopped cracking against his skin until he feels a hand releasing his wrist. He hangs from his left arm, trying to get his body to obey him, to get his feet under him.

The fastening on his left arm is undone and he collapses into the sand. 

He doesn’t have the strength to lift his head.

He hears the guards walking away, leaving him lying in the dirt. The sun baking his skin. The tangy metallic smell of blood fills the air, and feels thick and smothering against his back. 

It aches. Burns. 

Feels like the blows haven't stopped, each inhale, each twitch from abused muscles rupture the tears in his skin, splitting them further. 

Flies buzz around his head, landing on his back, biting his flesh. He can’t lift his arm to wave them away.

Maybe he's dead.

That's why they left him. Let him lie here in the dirt. His corpse baking in the sun.

* * *

Jack knows the moment the truck pulls into the yard that something is wrong. 

His joints pop as he stands from the hard wooden bench in the bed of the truck, muscles protesting the hard labor, feeling weak and jittery from exertion, and electrolyte imbalances after sweating in the hot sun. He’d forced Mac to eat half of his dry sandwich rather than save it. The kid needs his strength to fight off the infection Jack knows for sure is brewing now. Despite the heat, the flush in Mac’s cheeks is the start of a fever. 

He clasps Mac under one arm, the other going around Mac’s shoulders to haul him upright. Mac’s gait stutters, and he limps to the tailgate. Jack hops down first to help Mac painfully lower himself to the ground. 

“MacGyver,” a guard yells, ordering Mac to follow him.

Jack tries to trail along behind. A different guard grabs him roughly, pulling him back, away from Mac. Jack clenches his hands into fists, resisting the urge to fight, to be allowed to follow Mac. Out of deference, worrying about making things worse, he relents.  


He can only hope that the warden decided to show some humanity, some mercy. That hope sits hollowly in his gut. 

He shrugs off the guard’s hands and returns to the barracks with the rest of the prisoners. The cramped quarters stifling. Jack paces the length of his bunk as he waits for Mac to return, trying to ignore the way his stomach churns. 

They can’t stay here any longer, he decides. He'd hope that The Phoenix was coming for them, but he has no idea what story reached Matty, or if they were disavowed by the US government. He's not even sure what charges, if any were brought against them or if this whole thing is a scam for cheap labor.  


He'd wanted to give Mac a few days to rest his leg, but toting boulders in the sun is sapping his strength. They'll have to take their chances in the desert with the few crusts of bread and the canteen he lifted and stowed among the rocks. And he'll save tomorrow's lunch entirely. He debates if they should run in the morning, first thing when they arrive at the worksite while it's cooler or wait until evening when the rapidly setting sun might help them hide.

He'll talk it over with Mac, but he needs to get the kid out of here. Now 

Scuffling in the yard catches his attention on his next pass by the window. He grabs onto the iron bars, pushing his face close against them to see the commotion. 

Two guards manhandle Mac across the open space, and that feeling of dread that Jack’s been trying to ignore erupts in his stomach. 

Mac’s eyes meet his, and Jack can read the fear there. 

“No,” Jack whispers, pushing aside one of his bunkmates in his haste to reach the door. 

He’s stopped before he crosses the threshold, a guard just outside the door, blocking his path. Jack struggles to push past, but the man doesn’t move. He watches in horror as Mac is securely fastened to the posts in the middle of the yard. 

“Mac!” Jack shoves the guard harder and takes a hit with a billy club that leaves him gasping for breath. 

“You’ll make it worse for him,” one of the other prisoners says peering over Jack's shoulder through the doorway. “And he’s gonna need you when they’re done with him.”

Ice water fills his veins as a guard takes his position behind Mac, unfurling the barbarous bullwhip. His heart races as he watches Mac try to prepare, eyes locking on Jack's. It stutters to a stop with the first snap. Jack can't stop the full body flinch, aching as he watches the pain explode on Mac's face.

The lash flaying Mac's skin slices into Jack's soul.

Jack is a whipcracking champion, held the title for years. Wields the tool like an extension of his arm. Loved the sounds, the hiss and the snap, when he competed at rodeos. Now, punctuated by Mac's cries of pain, Jack feels bile rising in his throat. He wants to cover his ears. His cries echo Mac's

He wants to turn away. Hide his face, from the sight, the whip flings spatters of blood into the air and against the ground each time it swings. Instead, he forces himself to watch, in case Mac looks up for him, eyes burning with tears he watches each strike. 

The flogging goes on forever. 

Mac arches against the sting. Flinches and loses his footing, Jack can feel the jarring impact in his own shoulders as he watches Mac slump against the restraints. He waits, holding his breath, unsure if Mac passed out from the agony, hoping that he did and the assault will end.

A snap and a sizzle in a steady rhythm. Mac whimpers, and Jack’s heart drops in anguish, that he’s still awake enough to react to pain. 

Jack prays for it to end. He’s hyperventilating. He’s going to be sick. But he can’t. He has to stay strong. For Mac.

The whip cracks.

Then falls silent. 

The guard begins coiling the weapon and Jack exhales a shallow breath. It’s over. It’s finished. He’s nearly vibrating with the need to race to Mac, to cut him down and carry him to safety. 

The restraints holding Mac upright are released, and his body tumbles into the hard packed sand. Mac makes no move to rise.

Slowly the guards walk away, leaving Mac laying in the dirt.

“C’mon, Mac,” he whispers, his path toward his partner still blocked by the guard holding him back. He watches the tiny motion, the uneven rise and fall of Mac’s back with each shallow breath. They’re going to leave him laying out there in the sun. 

The guard steps away and Jack bolts through the open door, feet pounding against the ground. He slides to a stop next to Mac, and the kid flinches.

Mac flinches. 

And it cuts into Jack like each time he watched the whip cut into Mac’s back. 

Mac’s eyes are closed. Tracks of tears streak across grimy cheeks, still dirty from hours of physical labor in the sun. Each painful shuddering breath sends a small puff of dirt into the air. 

Blood runs down Mac’s back, leaking onto the dry ground, lapped up by the thirsty sand. 

Jack cards his hand through Mac’s sweaty hair, murmuring softly as Mac whimpers. He needs to get Mac off the ground. His plan to scoop Mac safely into his arms going to hell. Any way he tries to carry Mac is going to hurt him. 

“Mac,” Jack’s voice cracks, his throat dry. “I’ve got to get you up.” He shoos away flies that try to land on open wounds. 

“It’s gonna hurt.” He rolls Mac over, keeping his upper body elevated, out of the sand. Then he slides his arm under Mac’s knees. 

“It’s just for a minute,” he promises Mac. Promises himself. The noise Mac makes shatters the few pieces of his heart that had remained intact. If it hurts this badly, Jack can only hope that Mac passes out before he starts cleaning the wounds. 

Despite the urge he feels to hurry, Jack moves slowly, trying not to jostle Mac. Bleary blue eyes, halfway closed stare up at him. 

“You with me, hoss?” 

Tears continue to fall, but Mac doesn't reply.

Inside the barracks, Jack makes his way to his own lower bunk. He’s grateful that despite their lack of seniority one of them was assigned a bottom bed and he doesn’t have to bully or threaten someone, or try to haul Mac up a rickety bed frame.

The blanket has already been turned back, and a mostly clean and dry towel lies over the lumpy mattress. Jack lowers Mac to sit on the edge of the bed. A basin of water, a bar of soap and a few wash rags sit beside it. He looks around for the source. The occupants of the barracks studiously ignore the pair, all of them decisively on the other side of the room to give them privacy for the pain yet to come. 

“Gotta get that shirt off,” Jack explains when Mac turns exhausted, pain-filled eyes to him. He crouches in front of Mac, working on the buttons while Mac’s head falls forward and rests on Jack's shoulder. He feels the rough material growing damp. Wants to wrap his arms around Mac, comfort him and try to ease the pain, but his back is a crisscross of lines. There is nowhere Jack can touch without causing pain. Instead, he reaches up, resting his hand against Mac’s neck. He can feel Mac’s breathing deepen against his chest. Under his hand, Mac’s frantic pulse begins to slow. 

Jack closes his eyes. He would hold Mac like this for hours- days- if it would help. But Mac’s wounds still ooze, and his shirt sticks to the bloody welts. He knows what he needs to do, but he can’t rob Mac of this small comfort. Can’t inflict more pain on his boy. 

As if reading his thoughts Mac pushes away from Jack’s comforting embrace, meets his gaze with watery eyes. 

“Okay,” he breathes, the single word. 

Jack uses a small amount of water to wash his hands before moving to sit on the bed next to Mac. He grasps the collar of Mac’s shirt, lowering it down abused shoulders. 

Mac hisses as the material sticks then gives with a small tug, wincing as he pulls his arms from the sleeves. Fresh blood runs down Mac’s back, removing the shirt causes the small clots that have begun forming to rip.  


He wants to give Mac a moment to rest after the shirt is removed, but they’ve only just begun, and it’s going to get so much worse. He just wants it to be finished, so he helps Mac swing his legs onto the bed, turning to lay on his belly. 

Mac slides his hands across the rough sheets and clutches the wooden frame of the bunk above his head, reminiscent of the painful restraints during the whipping and Jack’s heart seizes. 

The water is lukewarm, but Mac reacts like he’s on fire when Jack begins cleaning his flayed back. He chokes on a scream, arching off the bed.  


“Easy, Mac, I got you,” Jack shushes, holding him steady.  


The bunk shudders as Mac writhes. He presses his face hard against the mattress as a sob breaches his ragged throat. 

There's so much dirt, grime, and blood. Despite Jack's attempts, there is no way to be gentle and adequately clean the wounds. He tries to keep up a steady stream of words, something that Mac can latch onto through the pain. His face like granite, but tears leak from his eyes. He hopes again for Mac to pass out, but the gasping cries don't abate.  


“Almost done, hoss,” Jack promises, his voice cracking. 

Blood wells up from the furrows as fast as he can wipe it away, forcing him to hold pressure against the gashes, ignoring the tensing, seizing muscles under his hands.

Jack cleans a particularly deep lash and Mac nearly levitates off of the mattress. Jack pushes his hand against Mac’s shoulder, holding him steady, keeping him flat on the bed. 

A few lashes cut low, Jack tugs at the waistband of Mac’s pants, folding it back to clean those slices. Mac whimpers. 

"You did so good, Mac," Jack murmurs. "We're finished, bud. All done." Jack sits beside Mac’s hip, his fingers scratching lightly against Mac’s scalp in rhythmic movements. Shuddering sobs slow. 

An occasional hiccup and wince, but soon he’s asleep. Jack eases himself up from Mac’s side, cautiously, not wanting to disturb his fitful slumber. He gathers the bloody rags and the basin, and he walks out the door, dumping the dark, blood tinged water in the dirt and a clump of weeds on the side of the building, and promptly loses what was left of his lunch.

He’d seen what a bullwhip and an abusive bastard could do to an animal, but seeing those marks Mac…

His knees buckle, and angry, aching sobs tear through his chest. 

* * *

Halfway through the night, sitting on the floor next to Mac, distressed whimpers wake Jack.  


Jack crawls in next to Mac on the tiny bunk, balancing precariously on the edge, fingers running through his hair to help settle him. Mac’s skin hot and dry, fever prickling below the surface. Jack tries pulling the blanket up around him, to keep him warm, but Mac flinches violently when the coarse material touches his back. He settles for tucking the blanket around Mac’s legs, and pulling Mac to rest half on his chest, using body heat for additional warmth. 

Mac’s rest is punctuated with shudders and sighs, settling only with Jack’s touch. Sleep eludes Jack entirely as he listens to Mac’s uneasy breathing, feels the thump of Mac’s heart against his chest. 

His half formulated plan for escape is moot. It would have been difficult and dangerous before, now it’s impossible. Mac is in no condition to attempt a jailbreak and desert hike. 

He can only hope that someone is coming for them. He doesn't care what the miracle Matty pulls off will cost him. He needs to get Mac out of here.  


The blackness of night fades to navy as golden light crests the horizon. Jack watches with dread. The dawn of another day in this prison, another day in which he can’t protect Mac. 

He watches the early morning sun through the barred window, casting shadowy dark stripes across Mac’s back. Jack wishes all those marks found there could be chased away as easily. 

He tries to let Mac sleep as long as he can, but recognizes the need for letting Mac have a minute to slip his mask firmly in place before the guards wake the rest of the barracks. 

Jack cups the back of Mac’s head, fingers tangling in his hair, allowing Mac, and himself a few moments of peace, an extra pain-free minute.

“Angus,” Jack murmurs in Mac’s ear, using his given name, hoping that Mac’s subconscious will recognize it as a warning and begin protecting him even before he wakes. 

Mac pushes his head firmly against Jack’s chest.

“That’s it. Gotta wake up a little bit for me, Angus,” Jack feels Mac’s muscles bunch. “Shh. No. Stay still,” Jack warns, tries to keep Mac from a half-asleep stretch that will pull against his abused skin. He feels the moment Mac comes online enough to tense in agony. 

“Relax. Don’t tense. Don’t fight.”

“Jack,” Mac’s voice warbles.

Jack helps Mac ease his body upright, grimacing at the pain and pulling sensation. Mac’s feet hit the floor and he sits up straight on the edge of the bed. As much as he wants to curl in on himself, the pressure that movement would place on his skin keeps him rigid. He releases a slow breath, rocking gently, eyes closed. 

Jack's hand rests on Mac's forehead and his heart breaks at the heat he feels there.  


The barracks door bangs open. Mac hisses through a startled jump.

“I’m good. I’m good,” he breathes through pursed lips. Jack’s hand stalls above his shoulder, close enough that he can almost feel the caress of skin, aborting the touch in fear of causing Mac additional pain. 

Mac brushes off his help for getting into clean clothes. Jack stands back, allowing Mac his independence. His heart clenching as Mac shakes in pain from the action of pulling his clothes on, and sliding sleeves onto his shoulders. He leans heavily on the bunk, catching his breath and Jack fumes. There's no way Mac can be expected to perform physical labor today. 

“He’s sick,” Jack protests, as Mac drags himself toward the truck. “He can’t pound rocks all day.”

“Prisoners must pull their weight or face punishment,” the guard tells him.

“I can do it, Jack,” Mac murmurs, he sways on his feet. Jack moves in close, hand on the back on Mac’s arm. 

“Hoss,” Jack begins but Mac interrupts.

“I have to,” Mac looks up at him. “I-- I can’t handle another punishment.” 

Jack wants to vow that he’ll never let them touch Mac. To swear that he’ll take it himself, but he couldn’t stop them before, can’t stop them if they come for Mac again. Rage seethes in his veins, and his eyes burn. All his promises of protection are empty. Hollow. 

He can’t even apologize for letting it happen. Can’t take Mac’s pain and make it about his failures. 

He helps Mac swing into the back of the truck, ignores the way Mac flinches under his hands. So few places he can touch Mac that won’t hurt him.

Jack tries to haul twice as much, keep the attention off of Mac. He watches his partner worriedly between the passes of the guards. The sun sapping his strength. His skin is translucent in the bright sun. Fever spots burn on his cheeks, the only color in his pale skin. His features pinched and his hair dark with sweat.  
  


* * *

Mac doesn't know how much longer he can keep going. Doesn't know how he's remained on his feet this long. 

Spite.

Stubbornness.

Refusal to let the warden and the guards see him broken.

A hysterical laugh bubbles in the back of his throat. He's spent a lot of his life doing things for spite. Living down being the abandoned orphan with only one friend whose broken home led him to blow up the football field. Ignoring the whispers when he dropped out of MIT to join the Army. Fighting back when Murdoc and the Ghost and his father got inside his head, twisting his thought for their own purposes.

Trying to prove to everyone for years that he didn't need anyone.

He was wrong about that last one, despite his dogged obstinance to try to handle things alone. It's one instance in which Mac is relieved to continually be proven wrong. Despite his mulish refusal to let Jack help him this morning, Jack still stands next to him, as he always has and always will, offering quiet strength to lean on. And he's secure in the knowledge that Bozer, Riley, and Matty are coming for them.

Until then though, he sets his jaw and pushes through the pain, and the fears that try to tell him that this is it. He'll never be rescued from this hellhole, and he's doomed to watch the cruel delight in the warden's eyes as he orders him flogged again.

His legs are trembling. He can feel rivulets running down his back that he hopes are just sweat but has a sinking feeling might be blood. 

His head is swimming. And his heart is racing in his ears, drowning out the yells of the guards and other prisoners.

Whup-whup-whup-whup.

Jack's hand on his elbow, pulling him down, under the cover of the truck.

With a confused look, his eyes track to where Jack is pointing, and he crumples in relief when the TAC team rappels from the helo. He sags heavily against Jack, swallowing a cry of pain when Jack’s arms brush against his back to keep him from falling to his knees. 

The work site is contained within minutes thanks to the efficiency of the team, and the drills Jack makes them run. 

"Come on, bud, let's go home."

* * *

Mac slept the plane ride home, to Jack's great relief. He laid down, prone on the couch with his head pillowed on Jack's thigh. Speckles of blood seeping through the coveralls, but Jack waves away the medics. No matter how thorough the medics are, the doctors will insist on cleaning and debriding the wounds again once they land and Jack doesn't have the stomach to watch it, to help hold Mac steady, twice in less than two hours; and there's no way he's not going to be there for Mac.

But Mac needs sleep and heavy duty painkillers before going through that again.

After a thorough checkup, and his wounds are cleaned and dressed, Mac absolutely refuses to stay in Medical. Threatens to walk out the door against medical advice if they won't discharge him. Doctor's orders and Riley's tearful eyes when she sees him aren't enough to sway Mac's determination. Matty tries to reason with him, and gives up in exasperation, telling Jack to "talk to him."

Mac is rummaging through the closet, hoping to find something to wear home when his spare go-bag lands on the bed with a thump. Mac spins around in surprise, hospital gown hanging loose around his neck.

"Matty wants us to talk."

"I'm not staying."

"I'm not gonna make you."

Mac quirks an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Spare set of clothes in there," Jack gestures to the bag on the bed. He reaches into the one still hanging off his arm and pulls out his softest, baggiest Johnny Cash t-shirt. "Think this one might be stretched out enough that it won't sit right on your skin though."

Mac crosses the room suspiciously, reaching out to take the offered shirt. He grabs it and takes a quick step back, like he expected it to be a trap.

"Need a hand getting it over your head?"

Mac glances between the shirt and Jack then nods.

Jack steps forward, slowly, arms out, placating. He reached behind Mac, to the knot that's supposed to keep the hospital gown on the patient but is doing a poor job, and plucks it loose. The material billows to the floor, exposing the ridges and grooves etched into Mac's back.

"Can you put your arms out in front of you?"

Mac's face contorts as the action pulls on healing skin, but manages. The shirt skims lightly over Mac's skin, falling into place without causing too much distress. Jack helps him balance as he steps into a pair of sweatpants.

"Sit down for a second," Jack says, and the suspicious look on Mac's face is back. "You've still got a low grade fever. I might be willing to help you escape this place, but I'm not going to let you do it in bare feet."

Mac sits on the edge of the bed, toes wiggling when Jack slides socks and then shoes onto ticklish feet.

The wheelchair ride out of Medical is quiet. So is the drive home. It's not until Mac is safely on the couch that he opens his mouth.

"I wasn't expecting you to help me with my jai-" he cuts off the word abruptly. "With my escape."

"Is that why you were as jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers?" Jack asks with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and Mac doesn't smirk at his colloquialism. "We should probably lay out a few of the terms of your release."

"I'm not going back," Mac moves to cross his arms, then stops, letting them fall back to his sides.

"The deal is this, you let me help you. Really help you. You let me hover and drive you crazy for a few days, and take your temperature if I'm feeling worried."

Mac rolls his eyes.

"Listen to me, you tell me if something is wrong, and let me take care of you and I'll keep everyone off your... out of your hair."

"Even Matty?"

"Even Matty," Jack agrees.

Mac pauses, considering. "For how long?"

"Until your followup appointment next week, pending renegotiation after that."

"Deal," Mac says, extending his hand.

Jack shakes it, surprised at how quickly Mac agreed to his terms. And wondering what loophole he didn't think of that Mac is planning on exploiting.

A few hours later, Mac is asleep on his belly on the couch. Exhausted after Jack helped him wash his hair and clean up, he opted out of putting on a t-shirt, not wanting anything against his skin.

Jack makes him wear cozy socks, a hat pulled over his blond hair and keeps a blanket tucked around his legs to make sure he stays warm enough. 

And tries his best to hide the way his face blanches every time he catches sight of the gouges marring the skin of Mac's back. 

Mac is surprisingly compliant with all of Jack's hovering, and it only serves to make Jack more nervous about what Mac is going to spring on him in a day or two. If he's honest, he's excited to see what his boy comes up with once he's feeling himself again. 

He's in the kitchen, debating what to do for dinner, when the front door opens. Right on schedule. Well, actually, he's flabbergasted that it took this long. 

"You absconded with my agent," Matty says in lieu of a greeting. 

"Sure did."

"I asked you to talk to him about listening to the doctor and you take him home," Matty says brow furrowing. "Help me understand this."

He supposes he should count himself lucky that she's giving him the chance to explain his decision. That she's not trying to court martial him or throw him in an interrogation room or bury him on a blacksite location. The only problem is, he doesn't quite have an answer for it either. 

"He wanted to go home."

"He never wants to stay in medical, and usually you're one of the voices of reason when it comes to his health."

"It wasn't that he didn't want to stay in medical. It was that he wanted to go home," Jack scrubs a hand through his hair. He leans over the counter to look at Mac's sleeping form. "I couldn't tell him no. Not after watching... not after seeing him hurting like that."

"He's been hurt before."

"Not like this."

Matty turns to look into the living room. 

"I don't have an answer. I know that he should have nurses fussing over him, and taking his vital signs and someone besides me washing out his back and leg, but I couldn't tell him no. Kid could ask me to take him to the moon right now and I'd find a way to get him there."

Matty looks up at Jack's red-rimmed eyes. "Okay," she acquiesces, seeing the guilt and pain buried there. She points a warning finger in Jack's direction. "But you watch out for him."

Jack nods solemnly. "I promise."

She gestures for him to move closer, and opens her arms. He kneels down and accepts her hug. “I know you will. He's lucky to have you."  


"Nah," Jack says looking over her shoulder, smiling at the kid. "I'm lucky to have him." 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Force + Recovery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311905) by [TetrodotoxinB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/pseuds/TetrodotoxinB)


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